


Burnt to Ashes, She Will Rise

by BowlOfGlow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowlOfGlow/pseuds/BowlOfGlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious letter is delivered to Baker Street, and Sherlock finds out John is not as bad at keeping secrets as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt to Ashes, She Will Rise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nox_candida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/gifts).
  * Translation into Polski available: [Spalona na popiół, powstanie- TŁUMACZENIE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398080) by [Toootie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toootie/pseuds/Toootie)



> Written for **nox_candida** for the winter Holmestice exchange and originally posted [here](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/322288.html). Thanks to **xock** for last minute betaing!
> 
> Timelines have been bent for my own convenience.

When he comes back from Tesco John finds Sherlock at home, curled in his chair. He’s staring unseeingly at the door, plucking his violin in the sullen way usually reserved for particularly frustrating cases and Mycroft, but doesn’t move an inch when John nudges the door open with his foot, arms loaded with groceries. 

“Ta so much for the help,” John says as he walks to the kitchen, dropping the bags on the table.

Sherlock continues to idly pluck his violin. John opens the fridge and frowns at whatever is in that plastic bag on the third shelf. A tongue? It looks like a tongue, but it’s too big to fit into a human mouth. And human tongues, John is fairly sure, are decidedly less bluish. 

“A letter came for you,” Sherlock says from the living room.

“Hmm,” John hums. He picks the plastic bag carefully between his thumb and forefinger and drops it in the crisper. 

“I hope you remembered to pay the last electricity bill,” he says once Sherlock’s words register. 

He opens the cupboards and starts putting the groceries away. The living room remains suspiciously silent. John can well imagine Sherlock momentarily lost in thought, trying to recall the conversation about shared responsibilities he has almost certainly forgotten.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock answers after a bit, but he doesn’t make a great effort to sound convincing. 

“It’s addressed to you,” he continues, returning to the previous topic. John hears him get up and walk to the kitchen door as he speaks. 

“Dr John H. Watson,” Sherlock recites. “The Upstairs Bedroom, 221B Baker S–”

John’s snatching the letter out of his hands before Sherlock can finish reading.

“Where did you find this?” he chokes out, clutching the letter in his fist. Sherlock looks at him with an impassive face.

“It was on the coffee table when I got home,” he replies calmly. “Strange, isn’t it? Since it’s clear you didn’t leave it there. Mrs Hudson doesn’t usually come upstairs to deliver our mail.”

It is a lovely April afternoon and John left the window open when he got out of the flat. His eyes darts to the window before he can stop himself, then return to Sherlock’s face. He’s still looking intently at John. He has the curious look he sometimes gets when he’s trying to figure out an unexpectedly good puzzle. This cannot end well.

John drops his shoulders and takes a slow breath, making an attempt to get himself under control. 

“Don’t read my mail, Sherlock,” he says, pointing at him. “We’ve talked about this.”

“You let me use your laptop,” Sherlock says, as if John were being unreasonable. “I read your emails.”

“I don’t _let_ you use anything, you keep hacking my laptop when you’re bored!” John snaps. “And that isn’t the point. Just don’t read my letters.”

“I haven’t read it,” Sherlock says. “You’ll notice the seal is still unbroken.”

John looks at the crumpled letter in his fist. It’s true, the red wax seal is still intact.

“Good,” John says. He clears his throat and shoves the letter in his back pocket. “Well.”

He nods and heads towards the stairs.

“Peculiar way of addressing a letter,” Sherlock notes in a casual tone as John’s taking the first step.

John stops. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.”

He goes to his room, very pointedly not slamming the door, shoves the letter in the first drawer of his nightstand and sits on his bed. He hears Sherlock come up the stairs not five seconds later and stop right outside of his door.

“Really, John, this is childish,” he says, and oh, isn’t that rich? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John says to the door. “Now, could you please go away?”

“I’m saying,” Sherlock replies, his voice rising slightly, “that there’s no need to continue this pretence any longer. It’s evident that you didn’t want to disclose your status to me, whatever it might be – ” 

Surely he doesn’t know, John thinks, panic blooming in his chest. He’s been careful, all this time, always keeping his stories straight, never giving Sherlock any reason to suspect, so how…?

On the other side of the door Sherlock has abruptly stopped talking, as if interrupted by a sudden thought.

“Oh God,” he says, sounding as horrified as John’s feeling. “Tell me my brother didn’t put you up to it. You haven’t been reporting to him all this time, have you?”

“What?” John says.

Now he has absolutely no idea what Sherlock is talking about. In fact, he might be going on about an entirely unrelated matter. Why is he talking about his brother, as if that was supposed to make sense?

“Up until today I could have sworn your powers of dissimulation wouldn’t be up to the task,” Sherlock goes on, talking rapidly, “but I see now you’re not quite the open book I imagined you were.”

“Sherlock,” John tries to interrupt, because this is getting more confusing by the second. He gets up from the bed and opens the door. Sherlock’s standing right in front of him, face set into a frown and mouth pressed into a tight line.

“Okay, do you mind telling me what you’re going on about?” John asks.

For some reason this seems to upset Sherlock even more.

“Oh, just stop it, will you?” he snaps, as if John were being deliberately obtuse. “It’s obvious you have connections to the wizarding world, and I know Mycroft would be delighted –”

John’s heart jumps and he raises a hand to stop the flow of words.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, because this isn’t making any sense. “You’re a _wizard_?”

Sherlock’s face remains blank, but his mouth twitches. 

“Of course not,” he scoffs.

“Then what – ”

“Oh, honestly, John! Put two and two together.” 

It takes John a bit, but finally all the pieces of the puzzle click together and he gasps softly in surprise as he takes in the whole picture. 

“You’re not a wizard,” he says. “You’re… a Squib?”

He expects Sherlock to look… well, not impressed, but at least a bit pleased, as he usually does after one of John’s deductions. Sherlock’s face, though, remains blank.

“Knew you’d get there,” he simply says, and suddenly it looks like all the irritation has leaked out of him, leaving only tiredness. Sherlock draws the lapels of his robe tighter on his chest and after a vague nod in John’s direction he turns around and walks downstairs. 

John doesn’t follow him immediately. He remains in the doorway for a while, blinking at the floor. They’ve been sharing a flat for almost a year, and John was convinced Sherlock was a Muggle the whole time. _Same difference_ , a voice in his head says. But it’s not, is it? Because Sherlock knows about magic and wizards and witches, and apparently he’s been keeping secret a whole part of him as well. Has Sherlock seriously never had any suspicions about him? John would find it strange, if it wasn’t for the fact that he hasn’t been in contact with any witches or wizards in years, and it looks like Sherlock hasn’t either. Well, not knowingly, anyway. 

He goes downstairs and finds Sherlock over the sofa, his back to the room. If he’s heard John enter the living room he doesn’t stir. John doesn’t sit down.

“You’re a Squib,” he repeats, slowly.

“So we’ve established,” Sherlock drawls. Back to contempt now, it seems.

“And your brother is a wizard,” John says. It’s meant to be a statement of a fact, but it still sounds like a question.

“Surely you’ve noticed his inexplicable attachment to his umbrella,” Sherlock replies.

“Okay.” John sits in his chair, rubs his palms over the arms. He is silent for another minute or two. “I suppose that explains a few things.”

Sherlock unfurls from his position and rolls on his side to face John. 

“Does it?” he asks. His tone is not challenging – if anything he sounds curious.

“I guess,” John says, uncertainly. “What makes you think Mycroft would want me to associate with you?”

Sherlock shrugs with one shoulder. 

“It’s the sort of thing Mycroft would do,” he answers, which explains nothing, really. “Though if this _is_ a coincidence, I must say I’m surprised he didn’t know about you.”

“Got records on every wizard and witch in England, does he?” John quips.

“Comprehensive, I’m sure,” Sherlock says, and John can’t really tell if he’s being serious or not. “But still, he’s not omniscient, much as he likes to act like it.”

John smiles. “Apparently, neither are you.”

“I was working under an erroneous assumption,” Sherlock protests.

John lies back into his armchair, spreading his arms in open invitation.

“True,” he concedes. “Go on, then. What can you tell?”

Sherlock sits up quickly. He seems to take the question as a personal challenge, and for a moment he studies John with narrowed eyes, hands steepled under his chin. Just as the silence is starting to border on uncomfortable, he speaks.

“You are a Muggle-born, obviously. No magical relatives, with the possible exception of that weird uncle you once joked about with Lestrade, but you weren’t close so your letter of admission came as a surprise. You were delighted to receive it – well, all children are, or so I’ve been told – but in your particular case it was an unexpected chance of escaping your oppressive family situation, given your father’s alcoholic tendencies and exploding temper. You were close enough to your sister but she ended up resenting you for leaving, and you weren’t on speaking terms with her for most of the time you spent at Hogwarts. You were sorted into Gryffindor, became a member of your Quidditch team quite early, possibly in your second year, and were made prefect in your fifth. After graduation you returned to your family and spent some time nursing your alcoholic sister, despite the fact that she still resented you. It took you probably two years to realise she was a lost cause and not your responsibility – you’re very stubborn, but not stupid – and by then you had become used to living amongst Muggles again. Am I close?”

It never fails to amaze John, the ease with which Sherlock’s deductions fall from his lips, and how alive and _beautiful_ he looks in those moments. He realises he must’ve been smiling stupidly at Sherlock for a while. Right now he doesn’t care all that much.

“That’s incredible,” he says, and Sherlock smiles back, looking pleased with himself.

“I mean, not entirely accurate,” John adds, and Sherlock’s smile falls, “but impressive nonetheless.”

“Not entirely accurate?” Sherlock repeats in an affronted tone. “What did I get wrong?”

“Not much fun if I just tell you, is it?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Fine. I’ll figure it out anyway.”

“I’m sure you will,” John says. He gets up from the chair, and Sherlock asks, “So what was that letter?”

Of course he was going to ask. To be fair, John is surprised Sherlock didn’t just go ahead and open the letter when he had the chance.

“You know, the rule about not violating my privacy still applies.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The concept of privacy has never been much of a deterrent for him. He will probably insist until John tells him or try to find it out for himself and, considering his stubbornness, John might as well tell Sherlock now and spare himself the trouble.

“They’re holding a commemoration of the Battle of Hogwarts,” he explains. “I’ve been invited.”

“The Battle of Hogwarts. Second of May, 1988,” Sherlock recites. He looks as if he were turning dusty pages of some Encyclopedia in his mind. Knowing him, he probably is. “Of course. You took part in it.”

“Most of us did.”

“And you don’t want to go.”

“I am not going.”

Sherlock tilts his head, studying John’s face. “Why?”

“Why? Are you asking this seriously?”

“It isn’t the only war you fought in,” Sherlock points out.

John shakes his head. “This was no ordinary war.”

“One would think you’d be more invested,” Sherlock starts, but John stops him.

“Sherlock.” There’s a note of warning in his voice. “I’m serious. Drop it.”

Sherlock falls quiet and, as John makes his way upstairs, curls up on the sofa again.

***

John hadn’t forgotten about the invitation letter, exactly. He supposes he should’ve been more careful. The letters have been coming every year at the end of April for over two decades now – except for last year, when he was in Afghanistan. Granted, it would take one very determined owl to get there from the UK, but John had received letters in equally unlikely places and was expecting one to show up despite all the odds. When it did not, he thought they’d finally given up on him – which is why this new letter came as a relative surprise.

He has never replied, not once. Part of him wonders if it might do him good to go after all – but then he starts thinking about who else might be there and who wouldn’t, and always decides against it.

***

Surprisingly, after their conversation Sherlock doesn’t ask John any questions about his family, or his time at Hogwarts, or the Second War. In fact, for about a whole week after John received the letter there is a remarkable lack of any kind of prodding – so much so that John almost starts to worry.

When Sherlock broaches the topic again after days of feigned ignorance, John is almost relieved. 

“Is that why you left?” Sherlock asks from the kitchen when John mutes the telly during a commercial break. For a moment John wonders if Sherlock’s been talking while the volume was still on and he only caught the end of his one sided-conversation. 

“Hmm?” John hums, because it’s happened often enough that he knows Sherlock will eventually elaborate if he acts sufficiently uninterested.

“The wizarding world,” Sherlock says impatiently. “After that battle.”

Oh. _That_.

“It wasn’t just a battle,” John says. “It was a war. It was… horrible, and senseless.”

“Wars usually are,” Sherlock observes.

John picks up the remote control and switches off the telly. “You have no idea, do you?”

It irks him, Sherlock’s casual tone. He should know what it was like, surely he has heard of it, but he sounds completely indifferent, as if the whole thing was just some boring political affair. He hears Sherlock’s chair scrape the floor a few seconds before he appears in the doorway.

“How could I?” Sherlock says. “I wasn’t there.”

“No,” John agrees. “You were not.”

***

It’s not like John turned his back to the wizarding world. He didn’t snap his wand in two at the end of the war and decide he was done with magic. It’s more like he fell off the grid. He left Hogwarts and there was still his sister to think of. There were bills to be paid and matters to settle after his mother’s death. There were other wars to be fought, and they weren’t any less important just because they had nothing to do with the wizarding world.

If he never replied to any of his old friends’ letters it’s because – he tells himself – it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on the past.

***

The second of May comes and goes. He spends most of it on a crime scene with Sherlock. If Sherlock notices John is more quiet than usual, he doesn’t mention it.

***

A couple of weeks later, John walks into the kitchen in the early morning to find Sherlock already sitting there, and he’s greeted with: “Did you know that Mycroft went to school with the current headmaster of Hogwarts?”

“What?” John says, because he’s not sufficiently awake for this conversation.

“The headmaster of Hogwarts,” Sherlock repeats. “One Russell Drayton. Turns out they were close friends. Well, as close as anyone could ever get to Mycroft.”

John rubs one hand over his face.

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“I asked for a little favour, and Drayton would be very pleased to have us as his guests for a day or two.”

It takes a moment for the words’ meaning to sink in.

“What?”

“The headmaster’s permission to visit the school is apparently required and not easily granted if you’re not a parent, but Mycroft pulled a few strings…”

“Hold on,” John says. “Going to Hogwarts? When did I ever agree to this?”

“You want to,” Sherlock says, frowning.

“No, I don’t! Why do you think I never went back?”

“Because,” Sherlock explains, “you’ve been avoiding people. You dropped all contact with your friends as soon as you left school, you’ve all but stopped using magic after you went back to living amongst Muggles...”

“Okay,” John stops him. “We’re not… we’re not doing this.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, sounding puzzled.

“Because,” John says, trying to keep his voice steady, “I already told you not to meddle, and I know you can’t help yourself, but I thought _maybe_ , just for once, you would actually give a shit about someone else’s feelings.” 

Sherlock’s eyes get cold. It’s a familiar expression, though John rarely sees it directed at him – it’s usually reserved for incompetent police officers and annoyingly stupid clients.

“Very well,” Sherlock says, and it’s the lack of any cutting remarks that tells John he’s managed to hurt him.

“Sherlock,” John says with a sigh, but Sherlock ignores him and goes to his room, shutting the door behind him.

John puts the kettle on because fuck, it’s not even seven, he needs some caffeine. Was he too harsh? Sherlock looked almost excited at the prospect of accompanying John to Hogwarts. Evidently he thought he was doing John a favour, but John did tell him not to insist, and he went ahead and ignored his request anyway. 

He was looking pleased with himself. Probably trying to be considerate, in his own way. For someone who reads people so easily Sherlock can actually be pretty clueless about feelings, and well, it’s not as if he meant to upset John. In fact he’s been keeping strangely quiet about the subject, even though John could tell he had many more questions to ask. The kettle clicks, but John ignores it.

He goes to Sherlock’s room, knocking tentatively on the door. 

“Sherlock?” There’s no reply, unsurprisingly. “Can I come in?”

He waits for a few beats, and he’s already turning around to go back to the living room when he hears Sherlock say, “If you must.”

He opens the door a fraction, peeking in. Sherlock’s sitting on his bed, his gaze fixed on an open book in his lap. The hair on the left side of his head is flattened, which tells John he probably wasn’t reading at all but was lying in bed preparing to sulk.

“You’ve never been to Hogwarts,” John says. It’s not what he meant to say at all, but the words slip out before he can stop himself, surprising them both.

Sherlock looks up from his book. “Of course I haven’t,” he says, sounding perplexed, then frowns. 

“That isn’t why I asked – ” he says hurriedly, and John waves the explanation away.

“I know, I know.”

Sherlock closes the book. 

“I saw the look on your face when you were thinking about Hogwarts,” he says. He’s looking down and not at John’s face, even though he can no longer pretend to be reading. “I just believed it would help, going there on a day that isn’t linked to what has clearly been a traumatic event for you, when the school won’t be crowded with people you’ve been avoiding for years. I thought it might… bring you closure.” He shrugs. “But if you don’t want to go, I’m not going to make you.”

John enters the room and closes the door. He leans against it, his arms tucked behind his back.

“I’ve lost friends,” John begins. He can see Sherlock look up but he cannot look at him, so he keeps his eyes fixed on his shoes. “Well, most people did. I didn’t lose any family, and in that respect I was luckier than most.” He pauses. He wants Sherlock to understand, but he doesn’t think he can even begin to describe the horror, the despair of that last year. 

“There was this girl. Same year as me, different house. And I – I really liked her.” He chuckles without any humor. “She was bright, she was funny. Confident. We decided to stay, together. We knew it would be bad, but I don’t think either of us was expecting…” He stops, exhales slowly. Sherlock doesn’t say anything. 

“She was seventeen,” John continues. “Most of the students were even younger, God, they were… they were children. At the end of the battle they moved all the bodies in the Great Hall and there were so many. So many.”

John’s voice has gone rough. He takes a shaky breath and looks up at Sherlock, who’s looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. John has heard him say those words only a couple of times since he’s known him, maybe, and it sounds weird to hear it now. John nods. 

“You’re not wrong, though,” he adds softly. 

Sherlock looks confused.

“I would like to go back,” John admits. “Perhaps I should.”

Sherlock taps his fingers on the cover of his book. “I’ll make arrangements,” he says.

***

They end up taking the 11 Express to Hogwarts, because Sherlock adamantly refuses to use the Floo Network but seems not to trust John’s ability to Apparate safely, telling John he’d prefer to keep all of his limbs, thank you very much.

It’s an eight-ish hour journey, as John reminds Sherlock when they get on the train.

“Remember, you’re the one who insisted on taking the express. Don’t start complaining if you get bored.”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes. 

The express runs only twice a week this time of the year and is only used by witches and wizards that need to get to Hogsmeade, so there aren’t many passengers on the train. The compartment where John and Sherlock sit is empty, and so it remains for the whole time. Sherlock takes out of his small suitcase a huge tome on chemistry and disappears behind it without a word. To John’s surprise, he is quiet for most of the journey. 

John flickers distractedly through his own book but can’t concentrate enough to read. He looks out of the window at the endless green fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. He remembers the anticipation, the excitement of the day when he first sat on the same train, looking out at the same part of the countryside. James was the first kid he’d ever talked to. The memory resurfaces, unbidden, and John closes his eyes. 

 

He dozes on and off for a few hours. When he finally wakes up, Sherlock is staring out of the window, apparently lost in thought. 

“You okay?” John asks, voice still thick with sleep.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock says, still looking at the window.

He has a point, John supposes, finding he doesn’t know how to reply – still, something in Sherlock’s expression prompted him to ask. When he looks at Sherlock’s face again to see if he can put a name to it, it is already gone.

 

The Three Broomsticks Inn isn’t much different from how John remembers it. There’s another owner now, naturally – a cheerful girl in her early thirties who seems delighted by the arrival of two guests.

“We never get many people here this time of year,” she explains, smiling at John. “It’s better around Christmas. People love visiting then, it’s really quite festive. Have you been before?”

She directs the question to John, though her eyes dart to Sherlock before quickly moving back to John’s face. Not really surprising. Neither John nor Sherlock are wearing any robes, but John’s plain shirt and jeans don’t draw nearly as much attention as Sherlock’s impeccable suit.

“Yes,” John replies with a smile, taking his key and Sherlock’s. “But it’s been a long time.”

 

Both of their rooms are on the first floor. Sherlock doesn’t bother taking his own suitcase and when John reaches the top of the stairs with their luggage, Sherlock is still standing in front of his door, frowning at the screen of his phone.

“Of course,” he mutters to himself. “Still stuck in the Dark Ages. How could I forget?”

He jabs his key into the lock and steps into the room, closing the door in John’s face. 

 

John’s own room is small but cozy. There are several pillows on the bed, a soft red rug on the floor, and a few books stacked on the nightstand. There is a small framed picture hanging above the fireplace – a bucolic painting of a man and a woman sitting side by side on a mountain rock, watching a herd of sheep. 

There’s knock on his door as John’s unzipping his case, and Sherlock sticks his head in without waiting for John’s reply.

“Bored already?” John asks. “There are a few books here if you want to read.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replies distractedly. “Speaking of which, do you have a lighter? There are candles in my room but I couldn’t find any matches.”

“Here,” John says, taking a lighter out of his jeans pocket and handing it to Sherlock. It’s only then that he notices Sherlock’s wearing his coat. “Where are you going?”

“Out. Need some air.” Sherlock says. As if that was enough of an explanation. 

“All right, I’ll come with you,” says John, grabbing his jacket, but Sherlock plants himself in the doorway.

“John.” He sighs impatiently. “I’m not a Muggle. I lived amongst wizards for years before you even knew magic existed.” Sherlock pauses, and though his words sounded annoyed he looks earnestly at John. “I’ll be fine.”

John hesitates. Considering how Sherlock had apparently forgotten that magic interfered with Muggle technology he still has some doubts, but Sherlock does have a point. He’s not a child, much as he might act like one at times, and he’s not, technically, a Muggle.

“All right,” John concedes. “But try not to stay out for too long, we’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

 

John wakes up feeling strangely well rested. It takes him nearly a minute to remember where he is, and when he does he rolls onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling.

“What am I even doing here?” he says to himself. 

“Damned if I know, sir!” cries a male voice from the framed picture over the fireplace. The ceiling has no answer to offer.

When John finally gets up he finds Sherlock already downstairs, sitting at one of the tables while flicking through _The Daily Prophet_. 

“This is utter drivel,” Sherlock says by way of greeting, brusquely closing the paper. A plate of eggs and sausages with buttered toast sits untouched at his side.

“Are you going to eat anything?” John asks. 

Sherlock shrugs as if to say he doesn’t care one way or the other, but he lifts his fork to poke at his eggs, and eventually starts nibbling on a slice of toast. John orders breakfast for himself. 

He glances at the newspaper’s first page. There’s something about a recent political campaign led by the Magical Beings Association but John’s been out of the loop for so long that he can’t make head nor tail of the article. 

“We should get going,” John says when he’s finished his coffee.

 

It is a lovely day, which makes the walk to the castle actually pleasant. John’s heart gives a flutter as they get closer to the Forbidden Forest which borders the grounds of the school. He can see the rings of the Quidditch pitch in the distance, the groundskeeper’s hut, and finally the bold outline of the castle itself, with its pointy towers standing out from the clear sky. John stops in the middle of the path, taking it all in for a moment. It is even more beautiful than he remembered.

They walk up the path leading to the huge oak doors of the main entrance.

“I doubt they’ll hear us knock,” Sherlock mutters as they get closer. 

He’s just finished uttering that sentence when the massive doors begin to slowly turn on their hinges, opening onto the main entrance hall. A thin man in a bottle-green robe is standing right behind the doors. He has greying blond hair and a thin moustache that makes his face look mousy, for some reason. 

“Welcome, welcome!” he says, smiling broadly as Sherlock and John walk up the entrance. For such a fragile-looking man, he has a surprisingly booming voice. 

“I’m Russell Drayton,” he says as Sherlock and John enter the hall. “You must be John Watson.”

He shakes John’s hand vigorously. 

“And of course, Sherlock Holmes! Your brother told me about you work,” he shakes Sherlock’s hand as well, apparently unfazed by Sherlock’s serious expression. “Terribly interesting.”

“I have no doubt,” Sherlock says.

“I thought it would be best to meet you in the entrance hall,” Drayton explains, oblivious, “I used a Detection Charm to know when you were close to the castle, I’m sure you don’t mind…”

“Not all,” John quickly replies, just in case Sherlock was thinking of answering that question.

“Of course you are welcome to visit the castle on your own – I’m sure Mr Watson remembers his way around, but our caretaker can still give you a brief tour if you wish…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock says, cutting him short.

“Of course, of course. I’d tell you to be careful but well, students get around the castle easily enough, I’m sure you won’t have any problems. Though I’d stay away from the sixth floor corridor, if you want to take my advice.”

John is almost tempted to point out that first year students used to get lost all the time and one of his housemates once didn’t come back to the common room for three days, but he keeps quiet.

The headmaster turns towards Sherlock. “This is your first visit, Mr Holmes, yes?”

“It is,” Sherlock says stiffly. Drayton doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, you’ll have to visit our library then! It’s on the third floor. A studious man like you will surely find it impressive, we have quite a remarkable collection of volumes from th– ”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupts. “Fascinating. Thank you for your help, Mr Drayton, I think John and I can manage to get around the castle better than the average eleven-year-old.”

“Right,” Drayton says. He smoothens the front of his robe with both hands. “Well, if you’ll excuse me then, I do have some business to take care of. Should you need me, I’ll be in my office. I hope to see you both at lunch in the Great Hall.”

“Of course.” John nods. “Thank you.”

They watch the headmaster walk quickly up the stairs. As soon as John believes him to be out of earshot, he turns to Sherlock and hisses, “Was that necessary?”

Sherlock’s face falls. “What?”

“You know what,” John says, trying to keep his voice down. “He was just being polite…”

Sherlock scoffs.

“And _you_ were being an arse. What’s the matter with you? You’ve been acting weird since we arrived yesterday.”

“I have not –”

“Look,” John continues, talking over him, “I understand that being here might be a bit uncomfortable for you…”

“John,” Sherlock says. “I offered to come with you, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” John agrees. “Then please, do you think you could be less of a git for just one day?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a brief smile. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” John nods. “I’m sure it won’t kill you.”

They both look up at the great marble staircase leading to the upper floor.

“Actually,” Sherlock says, “I think I’d like to take a look at the library.”

 

As it turns out, Sherlock is quite happy to spend time exploring the library. He peruses all the shelves in the Herbology and Potions sections, pulling out dusty old volumes, flicking through the pages, and sitting right in the middle of the aisle when he can’t be bothered to take a book back to the table. 

A few young students look curiously at both John and Sherlock, and a group of girls keep glancing at them, hiding their giggles behind their parchments sheets.

“I don’t need a minder,” Sherlock says apropos of nothing after an hour or so, as John yawns for the third time in ten minutes. 

“Tough luck,” John retorts. “You’re not wandering around without me.”

“I’m not going to wander around,” Sherlock says. John looks pointedly at him, and Sherlock sighs.

“Fine,” he says loudly, closing the book he was holding and getting up from the floor. A girl sitting at a nearby table stops writing to glare at him. “If that’s how you’re going to be.”

“I didn’t say we have to leave now,” John says. He’s actually pleased that Sherlock’s finding the library so interesting and he doesn’t want to cut his enjoyment short, but at the same time he doesn’t feel like spending half a day there.

“Well, you are bored and clearly itching to go somewhere else,” Sherlock points out. “I think you had a particular place in mind. You can go on your own or we can go together, but since you don’t trust me to be on my own…”

Sherlock brushes his jacket, putting the book back into his slot on the shelf. John feels suddenly guilty.

“If you say you’re going to stay _here_ …” he starts.

“Yes,” Sherlock says in an exasperate tone, but his face lights up.

“All right,” John says. This might be a terrible idea. “Then I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeats, but he’s already crouching back to peer at a low shelf, and John isn’t sure if he’s actually listening.

“Please, keep away from the Restricted Section.”

Sherlock hums, and John decides that answer will have to be enough.

 

The cemetery is bigger than John remembers. The last time he walked here it was still a handful of crosses stuck in the freshly turned earth. Now the gravel crunches under John’s feet as he walks through the headstones, and hedges and flowering shrubs have been planted all around the edge of the graveyard. It looks very different from the bare, miserable patch of land John remembers. He walks slowly through the graves, pausing for a minute or two in front of each name he recognises, brushing his fingers over the carved letters of old friends’ names. This sad procession takes an hour or so, and by the time John’s done he feels emotionally exhausted. 

He stops to pick a branch of bright yellow flowers from a small scented shrub. He still remembers the spot where she was buried, and he has left her tomb for last.

The gravestone is very simple. There’s no photograph, just her name, _Mary Morstan_ , and a few verses from a poem John cannot remember, although they ring a faint bell. 

_I am the soft stars that shine at night,_  
Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
I am not there. I did not die. 

Mary’s sister must have chosen them, but John hasn’t talked to her in more than twenty years. There is no vase, so he places the flowers at the base of the gravestone.

 _Your favourite colour_ , he wants to say. _See, I still remember_. But it feels silly to talk to a piece of stone and John doubts he could squeeze any word out of his tight chest even if he wanted, so he doesn’t speak. Instead he clears his throat and sits down, reading the few lines engraved in granite a few times.

He sits there for a very long time.

 

Dinner time has come and gone by the time he gets up from the hard ground. He makes his way back to the library, not really hoping to find Sherlock still there but not knowing where else to start looking.

The table where Sherlock was sitting is predictably empty, though there’s still a pile of books he didn’t bother to put back. John sighs, looking around. He spots some of the girls that were giggling at Sherlock sitting at a table furiously scribbling with their quills, stopping now and then to look up something in a huge book. An assignment due soon, evidently. 

John approaches their table, clearing his throat. 

“Hello.” The scratching of the quills stops, and four pair of eyes turn to John. “Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if you knew where my friend went.”

“Your friend?” one of the girls repeats in a gruff tone. 

“Yeah. Tall, dark curly hair? Dressed like a Muggle.”

“I think I saw him,” another girls says. She pushes her thick glasses up her nose. “He followed some Ravenclaws to Greenhouse One.”

“Greenhouse One?” John repeats. He has a sudden vision of Sherlock smuggling some poisonous magical plants to study at Baker Street and has to repress a shudder.

“They had a Herbology class,” the girl explains. “He looked interested.”

They all return to their assignment, evidently feeling they provided more than sufficient information.

“Thanks,” John murmurs. Just as he’s about to walk out of the library he notices a piece of paper on top of the books Sherlock left on the table. He picks it up, recognizing Sherlock’s spidery handwriting.

 _John, I’m going to one of the greenhouses. I’ve been invited to assist at a botanical lesson. No need to worry, I’ll be supervised_ (this last sentence had been underlined three times). _I’ll see you later at lunch.  
-SH_

Well, that was hours ago, so God knows where Sherlock is now. Hopefully with a teacher and not wandering alone around the school. If that’s the case, John thinks, he might as well have a walk around the castle.

 

The sound of stone grinding against stone fills the tower as one of the moving staircases begins to slowly rotate. It’s like nothing has changed. The suits of armour, the chandeliers, the carpets, everything’s like John remembers. Hundreds of portraits still decorate the walls. If someone stepped into Hogwarts for the first time today, they could never imagine that this part of the castle was once destroyed and had to be rebuilt completely. There are signs of course, but subtle. A discreet commemorative plaque in white marble has been placed at the top of the first flight of stairs that leads from the entrance to the first floor – it reads _Burnt to ashes, she will rise_ , and under that the date _2nd May, 1988_. 

Numerous portraits have likely been replaced, though John does recognize a few from his days as a student: a portrait of three young monks, an irritable knight on a black horse, an ethereal red-haired young witch in a blue robe. He wanders aimlessly for a while, lost in thought. A distant voice in his brain tells him he should probably look for Sherlock – but then, he reasons, Sherlock will probably head back to the inn soon if he’s not there already, since it’d make sense to wait for John there rather than look for him all over the castle.

John lets his feet lead him where they will and finds himself making his way across corridors and stairs, heading south towards the Astronomy Tower. There are no Astronomy lessons during the day, so John makes his way up, hoping to find the classroom open and empty. The tower is the highest point in the whole castle. Unlike the other towers, it has windows that are large and tall rather than pointy and narrow, so that students can get a better look of the starry sky at night. There’s a circular open space at the top with no actual walls but big stone arches supporting the roof and an iron railing all around. John makes his way there and he’s surprised to see – standing in the middle of one of the arches, framed by a portion of the sky – a rather familiar silhouette. 

“Sherlock?” John says, blinking. Sunset is still a couple of hours away, but the sun already hangs low on the horizon, suffusing the tower with golden light. Sherlock turns. He doesn’t look particularly surprised to see John, as if he was merely waiting for him to show up.

“Hello,” Sherlock says. “You missed lunch.”

He’s wearing his coat now, his collar turned up, and John would tease him about it if it wasn’t that it is actually breezy up here.

“Didn’t think I’ll find you here,” John says. He walks closer to the railing, next to where Sherlock is standing. From their position they can see the lake on which the sunlight is sparkling. The mountains on either side seem to enclose the school grounds in a safe embrace.

“Bouldstrige said you get the best view of the lake from here,” Sherlock replies.

John frowns, trying to make sense of that sentence. “Bouldstrige?”

“Potions Professor,” Sherlock explains. “Interesting fellow. We met at dinner. I mentioned my monograph on poisonous plants, which is, as it turns out, a subject he’s very knowledgeable about.”

“Right,” John says. He’s trying – and failing – to imagine that particular scene. He has no idea who Bouldstrige is, but he cannot picture Sherlock having a conversation with a wizard without it ending in shouts, and possibly a few thrown curses. 

The disbelief must be plain on his face because Sherlock adds in a peevish tone, “We had a fascinating discussion on the properties of _Atropa belladonna_.”

“Well, that I can believe,” John says, smiling, and Sherlock scoffs. He has a hand on the railing and he’s tapping his fingers on it, and in the silence that follows John finds himself staring. Sherlock’s nervous fidgeting makes something click in John’s mind, and he instinctively leans into Sherlock’s collar to sniff at it.

“What…?” Sherlock says, taking a step back, but he sounds more alarmed than confused.

“You’ve been smoking,” John says. He half-expects Sherlock to deny it, but he just rolls his eyes.

“Can’t get anything past you,” he mutters.

John holds his hand out. “In that case I’ll have my lighter back, please.”

Sherlock fishes John’s lighter out of his coat pocket and obediently hands it back.

“So, Hufflepuff then,” he says out of the blue, as John pockets the lighter. 

John looks up.

“How did you know?” he asks, because he’s pretty sure he didn’t say anything about it after the subject was first mentioned.

“Well, I do _now_ ,” Sherlock says, and John laughs. 

“Also, I know you,” Sherlock adds in a more somber tone. “I guess it fits.”

John leans against the railing. “You, on the other hand, would have been a total Ravenclaw.”

Sherlock hums vaguely, a sound that is neither agreement nor disagreement. 

“No way of knowing for certain. Though that would’ve broken Mummy’s heart. She was all about Slytherin pride.”

It’s the first time since he found out about John being a wizard that Sherlock’s mentioned his family. John can’t say he’s really surprised by the statement – if he had to judge by Sherlock’s brother, respect of traditions and pride in one’s social status were very much family values. He can picture it well enough – a long line of pure bloods, reluctant to mix with Muggles _or_ Muggle-borns. Half a dozen house-elves too, he bets. That would explain a few things.

“She didn’t take it well, did she?” John asks. He doesn’t have to specify what _it_ refers to.

“What parent ever does?” Sherlock says with a shrug. “Terribly disappointing business, for all parties involved. Even Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to tease me about it. I could’ve put up with that, but he actually _pitied_ me.” 

“Then your brother is an idiot,” is the reply that immediately springs to John’s lips.

Sherlock grins.

“I’ve been saying so for years. Anyway…” Sherlock pauses for a beat. “I don’t mind being a Squib, John. Not anymore. This,” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, encompassing the space they’re standing in, or possibly the whole castle, “is not my place.” He sniffs, then adds, “The educational programme is terribly unscientific anyway.”

John laughs. “Yeah, well. Magic and science do not mix very well.”

“True,” Sherlock says. “But… I’m glad I had a chance to see it today. It really is beautiful.”

He looks at the lake as he says that, and John can’t help but think, _so are you_.

“Are you?” Sherlock says. 

It leaves John momentarily confused, and for a horrified second he’s convinced he’s actually voiced his thought.

“What?”

“I meant glad,” Sherlock clarifies. “That we came to visit.”

“Oh. Yes,” John says. It’s not a lie, although the truth feels more complicated than that. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the place until today, but at the same time he’s prodded at old wounds he thought long healed and found them tender. It is a dull ache though, and nothing compared to the sharp pain he remembers. “I suppose… in a way, it will always be home.”

Sherlock nods.

“Still, magic isn’t as exciting as crime fighting,” John jokes, and Sherlock smiles. It’s the smile he reserves for when John's being amusing, and it fills John’s heart with happiness. Even if it’s not a rare occurrence these days, it’s still fairly unpredictable and often takes John by surprise. Not necessarily a bad thing. Right now, it makes him want to put a hand on Sherlock’s neck and pull his head down into a kiss.

Sherlock looks at him with a strange expression, and John fervently hopes none of what he’s thinking is showing on his face. He tries to keep his expression blank.

“Wh– ” 

The question John was about to ask is stopped by Sherlock’s mouth. It’s a brief, close-mouthed kiss, a mere pressing of lips, but it’s so sudden and unexpected that John gasps in surprise, which makes Sherlock break away.

“Sorry,” Sherlock blurts out, looking at anything but John’s face. He swallows. “I didn’t – I’m so sorry. Could you just... please, delete that.”

“Delete that?” John repeats incredulously. His voice sounds funny to his own ears.

“I mean,” Sherlock says, flustered, but apparently can’t find a way to finish the sentence, which is worrying in itself. 

“Shouldn’t we go?” he says hurriedly, instead. “I’ll wait for you in the entrance hall. If you need to –”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts. He catches Sherlock’s wrist before he can turn and walk away. Sherlock looks at him with a circumspect expression. Weirdly, it reminds John of someone staring nervously into a Hippogriff’s eyes for the first time, unsure of how it might react. John frames Sherlock’s face with his hands and pulls him gently down. The kiss this time is unhurried. John feels Sherlock’s surprised intake of breath against his mouth, and when their lips touch again they slide open, tongues brushing against each other. Sherlock releases John’s lower lip with a soft wet sound, and they breathe against each other’s mouths for a few seconds.

“Hmm,” John hums, and then: “You taste like an ashtray.”

***

They walk back to Hogsmeade in companionable silence, side to side, arms occasionally brushing. John smiles the whole way to the inn.

***

“Do you still have it?” Sherlock asks on the way back, as the Express slowly makes its way back to London.

“Hmm?”

“Your _wand_ ,” Sherlock says, the _you idiot_ unspoken but clearly implied.

“Well, yes. What, you thought I would throw it away? It’s kind of expensive, you know.”

There’s an excited look on Sherlock’s face that John doesn’t like at all.

“You’re not to touch my wand,” John says quickly. “I’m serious.”

“Do you have it here with you?”

“Nope,” John lies. Sherlock narrows his eyes, clearly trying to decide if he believes him. 

“You could take it with you to the next stakeout,” he suggests, and John laughs.

“That’s never going to happen,” he says, shaking his head. Sherlock frowns.

“You have no qualms about carrying an illegal gun with you. A wand would be more efficient.”

“ _Never_ ,” John repeats.

Sherlock sighs dramatically.

“Fine,” he says in a petulant tone. “Be like that.”

He sinks lower into his seat, putting his long legs on the seat across him. John turns to the window to hide his smile. After staring at the fields in silence for a few minutes, he places a hand on Sherlock’s leg.

“Thank you,” he says without looking at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock answers, but he squeezes John’s hand, and when John finally falls asleep almost an hour later he still hasn’t let it go.


End file.
